Bernell DorroughIf you’ve ever seen a David Lynch movie, then you know his particular aura of pervasive weirdness. Things seem normal at first, but just below the surface something has settled that is completely unsettling. The bar in the Ritz-Carlton in Clayton possesses the same qualities as a David Lynch movie-seemingly normal but slightly off-kilter, with a creepy aura that borders on terrifying.
Boredom led me to seek out new territories for drinking, and the Ritz seemed about as far from the dives I prefer and the trendy joints I am oftentimes dragged to by friends who still have the illusion that I’m cool. At first, the place just seems like any upscale hotel lobby lounge, with wealthy people strewn about on couches enjoying martinis, cognac, and fine cigars (which happen to give off the scent of dog feces couched in mint wrapping). But after finding a seat, the details of the place become more and more unsettling, and a creepy feeling of weirdness sets in.
The drinks are overpriced, so the best way to enjoy the place is to order one expensive drink and nurse it while people-watching. They have a lot of different varieties of aged bourbon and scotch, which actually are less expensive than a glass of wine and only a little more expensive than a Heineken (which costs $5.50). They also usually win the RFT and Post-Dispatch reader’s polls for Best Martini, partially because on their drink menu they have about a hundred different varieties in every shape, taste, color and size (apparently a martini needs not contain either gin or vermouth, but must only be served in a martini glass to be considered a martini).
The expensive booze is nice but not the main reason to put on the Ritz. The main reason is to enjoy the cinematic atmosphere and to watch rich people get wasted and embarrass themselves-to soak in a surreal world that’s just not quite like the Earth we (or at least, I) inhabit.
The room is huge, sparsely dotted with tables and couches. Waitresses in long black dresses prowl the room, but prepare to wait before being waited on unless you look like a big spender. In my jeans and snow-covered sneakers I had to wait quite a while. With your drink the waitress brings out water and a weird collection of mixed nuts.
There are chandeliers casting a pallor over the dimly lit room, and the carpet is maroon and looks like it was nice in the seventies. The room itself is very reminiscent of the scene in Lynch’s “Blue Velvet” in which Dean Stockwell lip-syncs a Roy Orbison song into a light bulb.
The room itself is strange enough, the wait-staff even stranger, but the real reason to attend an evening of drinks at the Ritz is to witness the clientele. I’ve been there a few times and each time the patrons are different but always incredibly weird. Once, I went there for a drink after dinner on my mom’s birthday and Maya Angelou was sitting there reading a book and enjoying a cocktail. My mom said, “Hey, that’s Maya Angelou.”
I replied, “God, Mom, not every middle-aged black woman is Maya Angelou,” before realizing that it indeed was. I’ve heard of visits in which Washington University professors have been helped out in recruiting new faculty by alums with huge pocketbooks and an extensive entourage of hot gold-digging women. One night, a Native American in a tanktop jitterbugged with a middle-aged woman to a swing band.
On this particular visit, the usual odd suspects were there. If looking at a couple, odds are one member of the twosome was at least fifteen years the junior of the other. Lots of mid-life crisis men with gold-digging hotties and mid-life crisis women with mid-twenties boytoys.
The strangest patron on this particular evening, however, was the middle-aged woman in too much makeup who had brought her eight year old daughter, and her friends, to the bar in the Ritz-Carlton for the little girl’s eighth birthday party. A mediocre white blues band was playing, and the woman gyrated drunkenly, her daughter and friends emulating her mother’s supposedly sexy moves. It was a creepy scene, one that had to be seen to be believed, and the type of scene that, in this town, could probably only take place at the Ritz-Carlton’s Lynchian lounge.
No trip to the Ritz would be complete without a trip to the place’s award-winning public bathrooms. That’s right, award-winning bathrooms. The Post-Dispatch and the RFT, year after year, in their Best of St. Louis polls, tout the Ritz’s bathrooms as the best in the area. I don’t know if best is the word, but weirdest certainly would be.
In the men’s room, each individual stall is lit by its own chandelier. The place is so clean one could eat off of the floor, and there are four sinks with individually folded paper towels. One almost feels embarrassed to soil the artfully folded handi-wipes with wet hands. Another weirdness: most of the bathroom is carpeted, just like the retro-sleaze carpet in the lounge.
Sick of living in reality? Wanna see how the better half lives? Then get yourself to the Ritz-Carlton, the dive bar for the insanely wealthy and one of the strangest places in the St. Louis area. If you go in with the right attitude, you definitely will not be disappointed.